The Crop (excerpt)


A Ranch Hand is Sleeping in a Greyhound Bus

His dream: a naked woman

growing claws, a naked woman

slicing his tongue in half.


He wakes up and checks the seat

behind his; empty. Outside the window,

stars form a new constellation: a knife

held against a throat.



The Upturned Bowl

of storm clouds drizzles onto her shoulders,

into hog holes. Her daddy’s ruined crops


and her daddy’s fired ranch hand – his shearing knife,

her jeans torn open.


She lays on her back, on the roots

pigs assume are free.


-Jarrod Schwarz